Chapter 27
Mikhail
“Iapologize for the interruption,” I inform the wrinkled woman sitting studiously in the chair across from mine as I tuck my cell back into my pocket. “We can proceed.”
The beautiful tone of Cassandra’s voice still plays in my head, causing some of my tension to melt back into the chair. Furious as she might have sounded, her voice provides me with a powerful reminder of why I’m sitting here in this scratchy, stiff chair being stared at like a scientific anomaly.
The gawking woman in question clears her throat once before addressing me again.
“That’s perfectly fine. I was just saying that I’ve signed the various NDAs you’ve sent to my office and will comply with your terms.” She tilts her head at a discomforting angle, staring up at me with a strange, meaningful expression.
It’s putting me on edge. “So, what would you like to work on together?”
Now it’s my turn to clear my throat, stalling as I contemplate how to word my request. I’m used to giving orders and not being questioned, but this woman looks at me like she’s brimming with hundreds of intrusive questions and unwilling to take any of my orders.
“The woman I care about told me that I needed professional help. I mean to win her back,” I settle on, obliterating any trace of emotionality from the cool evenness of my tone.
“I see,” the woman says after a short pause, now tilting her head to the opposite side. Jesus, what is she, a fucking praying mantis? “And is she the only reason you want to improve?”
“Yes,” I say easily.
She hums to herself. “Yeah, I’m not sure that’s going to work out too well, Mikhail.” Her eyebrows shoot up in an obnoxious, condescending manner that causes me to simmer with rage.
This is why I threaten people.
Fine, I’ll just have to find another therapist who’s willing to sign my NDAs. It won’t be too hard. I’m sure as shit not going to just sit here, being judged by this old hag who thinks she’s better than me because she’s bought herself a Master’s Degree—
“You look angry, Mikhail. Does what I said upset you?” She interrupts my spiral of thoughts with her unsettling, calm voice. “You can’t just learn how to fake emotional maturity if you want this girl back.”
At the mention of Cassandra, my pent-up frustration dissipates.
The only thing that remains is the sting of regret at how badly I’ve fucked everything up.
I’m going to have to actually put in the effort if I deserve any chance of getting close to her again.
I’d do anything to make her look at me again the way she did before.
Her instructions were quite clear when she shouted into my face that I needed professional help. Okay, baby. I can follow instructions just fine, see?
“Fine.” I nod slowly, keeping my eyes to the floor in submission to the old bat. I sure as fuck hope none of my men ever find out how much power this woman has over me already.
“That’s what I like to hear, Mikhail.” She cracks me a small smile. “It’s not an inherently bad thing to have motivation to grow, but you won’t be able to fake any of the work we’re going to do together. Not if you want to actually get something out of this. Understood?”
“Understood.”
The woman suddenly moves, reaching her arm into a nearby desk and pulling out a small book and a pen. She scribbles something on the front of the book before offering it for me to take.
Across the cover, in large, legible handwriting, the words “Mikhail’s Feelings Journal” are sprawled out in a clean line.
Fuck me. I look up at the therapist, who seems to be watching me carefully for any sign of reaction.
Unwilling to fail this first idiotic test, I roll my eyes and crack the book open, listening quietly as she explains how to interact with each of the assigned prompts.
Glock steady at my side, I stand guard at the entrance to our newest drop-site location, flanked by Lev and Andrei on either shoulder. The night is dangerously quiet, and each breath I exhale pours from my lips in a visible cloud.
Protecting a warehouse delivery from infiltration isn’t exactly how I’d like to be spending my night, especially since the simple task is usually something I delegate to men in the lower circles of my organization, but we have yet to catch the rat fucking with our shipments.
There are very few I can trust these days, and I’m not willing to get it wrong again.
I can feel the icy absence of my second from my side like a dent in my shield, but I know Ivan is the best choice to watch over Cassandra while I clean house.
I’m grateful that he volunteered to guard her before I could even ask; he was always a step ahead.
The three of us here are more than capable of ensuring there’s no issue with tonight’s delivery.
The crinkle of a foot crushing a plastic bag somewhere down the alley has me raising my weapon and flicking off the safety, Lev and Andrei following suit.
A few moments later, a group of men emerges from the shadows, large dark duffel bags slung over their shoulders.
I decided to make the deliveries smaller in quantity until I’ve identified the leak, limiting the risk profile of another incident affecting our bottom line.
Unfortunately, this creates a lot more manual work, which will have to fall on me and the inner circle until I can trust my additional resources once again.
Andrei checks in with our security team, and I only lower my weapon once he gives me confirmation that the scene is clear. Without a word, the men drop their duffles, the leader of the group strolling up to me with his hand extended.
“Pleasure as always, Mr. Solokov,” the man says in a thick Irish accent. I ignore his hand, nodding once at him before gesturing for Lev to go collect the bags. The man doesn’t seem offended by my refusal of the formality, simply folding his hand back into his pocket.
“Things must be bad if you’re doing personalized deliveries these days.”
I raise a brow at the large man. “Perhaps I’ve come to investigate our deliverers.”
“Careful, Russian. You don’t seem like you have allies to spare. By the way, I’ve heard through the grapevine that the Italians are getting into arms dealing. Interesting, considering all of their shipments have your Bratva’s sigil decorating their boxes, hm?”
Anger rolls through me, but I maintain the bland expression. “Yes. Very interesting. I wonder how long they’ll sustain that little venture.”
The man gives me a knowing smile before turning on his heel to walk back into the shadows, the rest following suit.
If we don’t manage to find the leak soon, we’ll lose every buyer I’ve fought to maintain. Someone new will usurp the artillery markets, and everything I’ve built will fall to pieces. Knowing the Irish have their own intel into the situation puts a ticking time bomb on this whole state of affairs.
With the tiresome ordeal finally over, I slide into my car and turn on the ignition.
The space still smells like lavender and fresh dirt from my visit to the plant store, and the unique mix reminds me of our drive to dinner at Batiste.
When I asked her what her favorite flowers were, she gave me a soft, musical laugh.
“It’s not really a flower, I guess, but I think lavender is timeless.”
“The smelly shrub? You’ve gotta be kidding, Menace.”
“Rude! How would you like to be called a smelly shrub?”
“You can call me anything you want, sweetheart.”
Her soft blush fills my memory before falling like sand through my fingers.
I release a heavy sigh. Basking in the heat flooding through the vents, I rub my frigid palms together before reaching into the glove box to retrieve the small journal from its hiding place.
Entry 1: What Does Happiness Mean to You?
This is bullshit, and I’d rather die alone.
The undying loyalty of my supporters.
The smell of rain hitting dry, busy streets.
My mother cooking stroganoff in my childhood kitchen while my father was off working somewhere far away.
Burying my face in soft, brown curls, breathing in vanilla and spice.